Pointed Questions
by lingering nomad
Summary: One night, in Skyhold's tavern, an unsuspecting Dorian finds himself confronted with an inconvenient truth.


**Topography:** "spoken dialogue," "_flashback dialogue_," '_thoughts_,' _emphasis_

**A/N:** Quick little fic dedicated to bullschargers and taranoire.

***WARNING:* **This fic features red!Hawke taking a very confrontational stance on slavery in Tevinter. If you did not romance Fenris in DA2, did not like red!Hawke, and/or if Dorian is your fave and you absolutely cannot handle seeing him in a situation that is less than sympathetic, **CLOSE THE BROWSER NOW. YOU WILL NOT ENJOY THIS STORY. READ ON AT OWN RISK. FLAMES, THREATS AND DISPUTES ON SUBJECTIVE ASPECTS OF CHARACTERISATION WILL BE IGNORED.** If anyone is interested in the reasoning behind this fic, feel free to read the comments on my AO3 posting. For some real world comparisons, drop me a message and I'll send on the links to a couple of meta posts I did on tumblr. That is all. If you're still here, happy reading ;) If you're rereading this fic and find yourself doing a double-take at m!Tre's name, that's because it has in fact changed. I'll spare y'all my list of nit-picky reasons for this, except to say that the character has evolved somewhat and I think this suits him better. It's a slight change, though, so hopefully it's not too jarring.

~Pointed Questions~

"...I didn't personally, but my family does. They're treated well—"

The thunk of a dagger sinking deep into the newly lacquered bar top of the Skyhold tavern cut short whatever Altus Pavus had intended to add. It wasn't the sound so much as the vehemence behind it that rippled like a foreboding knell through the room, causing even the minstrel to falter. Lysander – Inquisitor Trevelyan to most of the assembled – glanced up, finding the slate-grey gaze of Thedas' most notorious apostate boring sharp and cold into the necromancer seated beside him.

"Treated well, you say?" Hawke questioned. His tone was calm, but there was no mistaking the storm roiling beneath the temperate veneer.

Lysander felt the change in Dorian's demeanour; felt the unconscious hardening of muscle and the shift in his posture as he strove to conceal his unease. He had to give the Tevinter credit. Dorian ignored it well enough most days, but the magister's son was only too aware of the hitherto unspoken truth that a hatred of the Imperium and those who ruled it remained perhaps the sole unifying dogma among the warring factions of Thedas. It was a loathing surpassed only by their collective fear. And Hawke, of course, gave every impression of fearing nothing at all.

"Yes. I believe they are," Dorian braved.

The corner of Hawke's lips tilted up at this. A smile supposedly, yet Lysander had rarely seen an expression that carried more scorn.

"So they're literate, then?" the apostate pressed, spurring yet another posture adjustment from the Imperial mage.

Dorian's discomfort was becoming overt and Lysander's lips parted, fingers itching to curl around the hilt of his staff as he readied himself to intervene. It was then that his senses alerted him to the silence that had descended upon the room, to the expectant stares directed their way and the objection lodged like a stone in his throat.

The Inquisitor – Herald of Andraste, beacon of faith in a time of doubt – could not be interpreted as speaking in defence of slavery in Tevinter, however obliquely. Whatever reprieve he might buy for his…friend? confidante? in the moment would be quickly overshadowed by the furore of suspicion over 'Magisterial influences' infiltrating the highest ranks of the Inquisition, followed by a nigh irrefutable torrent of demands for its expulsion. Galling as it was, the very clout that had propelled the Inquisition's reach across a continent now prohibited Lysander from saving one of his closest associates from a caustic interrogation under the scrutiny of pub-goers…As the thrice-damned, dog lord _apostate _undoubtedly knew!

Resentment flared, rising acrid and corrosive at the back of the Knight Enchanter's throat until it was all he could do not to call fire on Kirkwall's fallen Champion. He summoned the most incendiary glower he could muster and levelled it on Hawke, but true to his reputation, the man paid him no mind.

"I—" Dorian faltered. "I don't know," he tried to circumvent, but the lie was thick in his voice.

Hawke arched a brow. "You don't know?" he echoed. "Did you ever see them with quills and parchment in hand, perhaps jotting down notes as the mistress of the house issued orders for the day? Did they have access to books? Even 'preapproved' ones, not at all likely to make them think, or question, or – Maker forbid – _hope_? By the Herald!" the Fereldan mocked, challenge and disgust vying for control of his tone, "let's make it simple, shall we: did you, even once, in the thirty-odd years you lived in Minrathous, see so much as _one_ of your family's 'well-treated' slaves look upon the written word with comprehension rather than _fear_?!"

The last word was pressed between gritted teeth as the dagger jerked free of the wood and Lysander felt Dorian flinch, ever so slightly.

Hawke, for his part, was like a Mabari with its jaws locked upon a hare and he was not yet done with his mangling. "And I suppose it was '_an honour_' to be called to the master's chamber, was it? One no slave would _ever_ dream of refusing!"

"My—" Dorian's throat clicked as he swallowed. "My father doesn't lie with slaves," spoken hoarsely and Lysander prayed that he alone heard the doubt billowing beneath the denial.

"Did _you_?!"

Two words, like drops of serpent's venom, and even the Inquisitor couldn't claim immunity to their poisonous sting as Dorian's affronted "No!" sent a rush of relief through his veins.

Hawke huffed, rising from his seat. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, thickly-muscled and imposing of stature.

Dorian could not be called slight by any means, but there was no denying that the Altus mage's sleek musculature was honed for aesthetics rather than strain. Varric's biography claimed that the Fereldan's rise to infamy had begun as a smuggler and sell-sword. It would not surprise the Inquisitor in the least to learn that the man had fallen back on those same 'occupations' to sustain himself and his adherents in the years since the most spectacular topple from grace in living memory.

More pressing, however, was the fact that Hawke was also a powerful mage, apparent to anyone who possessed a link to the Fade, and one well-versed in doing battle against his own. He was even rumoured to have mastered the templars' skill of disrupting another mage's casting through an act of will and while Lysander laboured under no false sense of modesty regarding the potency of his own abilities, the legend of the Champion was one even _he _was reluctant to test.

Hawke's gauntleted hand came down on the counter as he leaned in close, lips a hand's-breadth from Dorian's ear as he spoke. "I believe you," he said, voice low, "which is why your blood remains inside your veins this night. But know this, _magister_," he hissed, deliberately misusing the title, the thick rancour in his voice transmuting a term of Imperial prestige into the lowliest of slurs, "_I_ made the mistake of cradling an adder to my breast. The price was borne by my city and by those I hold most dear. Do not think that I will hesitate to act if I have even the barest hint of cause to believe that the man who shepherds the fate of Thedas itself is guilty of the same!"

He rose to his full height, eyes darkened to a piercing blue, boring like spines of ice into Lysander's hazel. Satisfied that his warning had been conveyed, he turned sharply, a swirl of worn leather and black hair, streaked with silver, and stalked toward the door. The heavy oak groaned as it opened and again as it swung closed in the Fereldan's wake.

A pointed glower from Lysander saw the minstrel's song resumed and with it, the general bustle of the tavern.

"I'm sorry," he muttered under his breath as he turned back to Dorian, voice too low to impart the scope of feeling behind the apology.

Dorian nodded his acceptance. His gaze, however, remained fixed upon the bar, slanted toward the deep scar Hawke's dagger had left upon the wood. When he glanced up, his patented smile shaped his lips, but his eyes remained troubled. "I think it's time I bade you good night, my friend," he said, rising from his seat with his usual grace, hand clamping down on Lysander's shoulder. "Today has been…well, _eventful _summarises it nicely, I think. And I believe some respite would be in both our interests."

**End A/N: **So at the end there, I might have pictured Hawke turning around at the door and going "Wreath Hawke" in his best Boston Legal voice. It's very late. Ignore me.


End file.
